Four poems by Lynette Roberts
Four poems by Lynette Roberts stories

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# Poem from Llanybri > If you come my way that is…
By MilkbottleF

Four poems by Lynette Roberts

by MilkbottleF

# Poem from Llanybri

> If you come my way that is…

> Between now and then, I will offer you

> A fist full of rock cress fresh from the bank

> The valley tips of garlic red with dew

> Cooler than shallots, a breath you can swank

> In the village when you come. At noon-day

> I will offer you a choice bowl of cawl

> Served with a ‘lover’s’ spoon and a chopped spray

> Of leeks or savori fach, not used now,

> In the old way you’ll understand. The din

> Of children singing through the eyelet sheds

> Ringing smith hoops, chasing the butt of hens;

> Or I can offer you Cwmcelyn spread

> With quartz stones from the wild scratchings of men:

> You will have to go carefully with clogs

> Or thick shoes for it’s treacherous the fen,

> The East and West Marshes also have bogs.

> Then I’ll do the lights, fill the lamp with oil,

> Get coal from the shed, water from the well;

> Pluck and draw pigeon with crop of green foil

> This your good supper from the lime-tree fell.

> A sit by the hearth with blue flames rising,

> No talk. Just a stare at ‘Time’ gathering

> Healed thoughts, pool insight, like swan sailing

> Peace and sound around the home, offering

> You a night’s rest and my day’s energy.

> You must come – start this pilgrimage

> Can you come? – send an ode or elegy

> In the old way and raise our heritage.

# Poem

> We must uprise O my people. Though

> Secretly trenched in sorrel, we must

> Upshine outshine the day’s sun: and day

> Intensified by the falling prism

> Of rain shall curve our smile with straw.

> Bring plimsole plover to the tensile sand

> And with cuprite crest and petulant feet

> Distil our notes into febrile reeds

> Crisply starched at the water-rail of tides.

> On gault and greensand a gramophone stands:

> In zebrine stripes strike out the pilotless

> Age: from saxophone towns brass out the dead:

> Disinter futility, that we entombing men

> Might bridle our runaway hearts.

> On tamarisk, on seafield pools shivering

> With water-cats, ring out the square slate notes.

> Shape the birdbox trees with neumes. Wind sound

> Singular into cool and simple corners,

> Round pale bittern grass, and all unseen

> Unknown places of sheltered rubble

> Where whimbrels, redshanks, sandpipers ripple

> For the wing of living. Under tin of earth

> And wooden boles where owls break music:

> From this killing world against humanity,

> Uprise against, outshine the day’s sun.

# Curlew

> A curlew hovers and haunts the room.

> On bare boards creak its filleted feet:

> For freedom intones four notes of doom,

> Crept, slept, wept, kept, under aerial gloom:

> With Europe restless in hís wing beat,

> A curlew hovers and haunts the room:

> Fouls wire, pierces the upholstery bloom,

> Strikes window pane with shagreen bleat,

> Flicking scarlet tongue to a frenzied fume

> Splints hís curved beak on square glass tomb:

> Runs to and fro seeking mudsilt retreat;

> Captured, explodes a chill sky croon

> Wail-íng… pal-íng… a desolate phantom

> At the bath rim purring burbling trilling soft sweet

> Syllables of sinuous sound to a liquid moon

> Till window, wide, frees thin mails of plume,

> Fluting voice and shade through clouds moist sleet:

> A curlew hovers and haunts the room.

# Thursday September the Tenth

> So that magnetism pierces each blight

> And shallow ring: sends a scaffold of light

> Through suspended hills, drinks truculent sight

> And water-silk of day, floating splashing

> Eyelashes on about air, swilling

> Swallows clean against Sunday, clearing

> Breasts whiter than butterflies low over sill;

> Who glazed this day? Fetched labourers to spill

> About soil, spading like hairpins to till

> Of earth. Who gently lifts a strawberry set,

> Opens row to shine streamlets of violet sweat,

> Sun concentrating on circlet of dust a banquet

> Of warmth: tends garden twine unravelled on path,

> Liquid gleam round each raceme of grass, an aftermath

> That quavers like parakeet fresh out of its bath.

> Who polished this day? String of mackerel and glue

> Sized and scoured sky to its finest grain of blue:

> Flashed motor spirit through each splint of wing: drew

> And transfixed man at his most monstrous art of war:

> Picked out world mildew and muddled indifference; saw

> Heart, pressure of steel, culled into a shadowed claw

> Sharpen infinity, and all trees of branched iron,

> Leaves elliptical pinnate sprayed thinly over rinsed apron

> Of space, their metallic hue so starkly crisp, enamel legion

> Of the partial eclipse: darkening nature

> Finding a ferret of lines in each feature:

> Who clipped this white-eyed splendour? Barbed-wire-fixture.

> Meat cover on slab of slate prosecuting inkstand

> Cold basin and porcelain plate. Day’s bristol shine: a band

> Of empty beer bottles, wine jars green for thirst. So reprimand

> And commemorate, for this day will come again, war and day,

> Imprisoning each other with shylock glint: betray

> Clashing bayonets, hold up of sunny sideboard and pay.

> Who ran with the sun sandpapered the way? You

> Under arcade of bracelet blue: or was it the view

> That clarified thursday, September nineteen forty-two.

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